


when we were young (oh, just look at us now)

by woodland_elf



Series: The Atomic Age (or, Modern Thedas) [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, King Alistair, Mage Rebellion, Multi, Politics, Time Skips, if anyone was confused about that, oh man this is already a hot mess, same universe as Flour Ink and Salt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10671738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodland_elf/pseuds/woodland_elf
Summary: On the complicated history of one Florence Cousland, member of the Ferelden parliament, and Alistair Theirin, the Bastard King.





	when we were young (oh, just look at us now)

18:30 Atomic

Winter - Denerim

 

Nobody likes a funeral. Nobody likes to dress in the black garb of the mourner, to step in line to pay respects to an empty body before it’s set to be cremated, for one last look at the gray, hallowed face. It’s morbid – to the person they once were, to the family of the deceased. How does this feel better? How does this make _anyone_ feel better?

Florence stood a little behind her brother, like a child does, fidgeting with her dress and her coat and her scarf, all black, black on black on black with black shoes and plain hair and jewelry. The family manager made her buy all these new clothes – a new funeral outfit, since she’d burned the last one she wore – and made her attend, _for the family image, Florence._

Fergus pinched her arm. Florence jumped.

She stepped forward; stepping in line to view the body, laid open on the pyre, under a shroud bearing the royal coat of arms, while the sisters and brothers of the Chantry sang. She looked at the already stretched face of the dead king, pale and thin and bald – nothing like the man he once was, even five years ago.

She hated Richard, the family manager. She hated him for making her come to this. Fergus could have come alone – he was the Teyrn, after all. She was only his sister.

King Cailan Theirin was forty when he died. Born in the spring of 17:90 Fire, died in the winter of 18:30 Atomic, after a seven year battle with testicular cancer. He leaves behind a wife, Anora Mac Tir, and a half-brother. He has no heirs.

Florence felt sick when she pictured him alive – golden and happy and smiling. She felt truly sick.

Behind the body of Cailan, Florence chanced a glance to see Anora. Her face was stony, unreadable. But her nose was pink and her eyes, even at this distance, were red.

Though every nerve in her body told her not to, she looked a little to the left, her gaze falling upon him.

In the corner of her eye, the pyre was lit in the open, drafty Chantry. The smoke and sparks rose as flames licked and enveloped the body of King Cailan, taking his soul to the Maker’s bosom and freeing his body.

But he was standing there, so much the same, yet so different.

_The King is dead, long live the King._

The Bastard King.

Alistair’s eyes met hers. Quickly, she looked away, her eyes falling upon the burning pyre as the last King dissolved into ash.

But her thoughts were on the other brother, the other King, and she wondered, just what went so wrong?

 

_____

 

18:24 Atomic

Summer - Highever

 

With her eighteenth birthday now come and gone, Florence had had enough alcohol and gifts to satisfy an Orlesian Emperor.

Lounging in the back of Fergus’ convertible, Florence adjusted her sunglasses to look at the screen of her phone – another birthday gift. Another missed call from Richard. She locked the phone and dropped it in her purse.

Florence leaned forward, holding her long platinum hair out of her face to keep it from blowing into her mouth and her eyes, wedging herself between the headrests of Fergus, who was driving, and Oriana, his girlfriend. In the other back seat lounged Darrien – a son of a Bann, visiting the Couslands, and effectively spending the holiday flirting with Florence – and flirting _well_.

“We should go to the beach!” she said, as loud as she could over the roar of the wind. Fergus shook his head, but Oriana agreed, pleading, “come on, you’ll have fun,” into Fergus’ ear. He shook his head, ever the serious Designated Driver, while the other three had been seriously day drinking at the lake house. It was now sunset, and Fergus’ clear intention was to take the party home.

“No,” was his hard and fast answer. “And put your seatbelt on.”

Florence grimaced, but plunked herself back into her seat, clicking into her seatbelt. Darrien not so smoothly stretched out his arm behind her shoulders, leaving it there for the rest of the drive to Highever Place, talking smoothly into her ear.

The sky was dark when Fergus pulled into the long driveway to the family grounds. The Couslands lived in a 200 year old manor house, built next to the crumbling ruins of the old Castle Cousland, which was easily over a thousand years old. Spotlights illuminated the old towers and turrets, the gatehouse, and the remaining walls. Florence dared a glance at her phone – fourteen missed calls.

“Fuck.”

Before Fergus had even _stopped_ the car, Richard was barreling down the front stairs, headset on and planner in hand, tie loosened, and jacket crisp and tight – the classic image of the family manager.

“I have been _calling,_ ” he bellowed as he approached the car.

“And we’ve been _driving,_ ” Florence rolled her eyes.

“Lady Cousland,” sighed Richard, “Are you seriously drunk?”

“Only a little buzzed,” she smiled, and hopped out of the convertible, losing a sandal along the way. She hopped over to it to put it back on.

“Sorry, Richard,” said Fergus, ever the people-pleaser, “I was driving and wasn’t checking my messages.”

“Just get inside,” he sighed, “Lady Cousland, your meeting with the emissary from the Royal Denerim University is still running _very_ late. He is with your mother and father in the Blue Room—“

“Thanks Richard,” Florence waved, and dashed up the steps towards the house.

She stopped by the powder room next to the Blue Room and splashed cold water on her cheeks and quickly rinsed her mouth out with water, swish, spit, fill, swish, spit.

She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time – her cheeks were still a little flushed, but that could be written off as sunburn, and – oh, yes, that.

Well, there wasn’t enough concealer in the world to cover that shit up.

So she walked into the Blue Room, a little drunk and sporting a big purple black eye, and met with the emissary from Royal Denerim University and her parents to sign her letter of intent to attend RDU in the fall to study political science and law. Like a true Cousland.

 

___

 

18:24 Atomic

Summer – Somewhere outside Redcliffe

 

Sure, he was speeding, but he seriously didn’t think anyone would _pull him over_ , not with diplomatic plates.

And he really didn’t think the cop would really arrest him.

But he knew exactly who would be coming to pick him up.

“Hey, Uncle Teagan,” Alistair grinned from inside the little cell in the tiny police station in the tiny road stop town of Dunnerkirk. Teagan didn’t even look at him as the officer unlocked the cell door and let Alistair out. “Good to see you – it’s been a few months, are you growing a beard?”

Teagan only sighed. They collected Alistair’s phone, wallet, keys, and shoelaces – yes, they even took his shoelaces – from the cop at the desk, and Teagan all but dragged him by the elbow out of the station.

“I can drive myself home—“

“Alistair,” he said, in his Teagan-is-disappointed voice, the one that Alistair _really_ hated, and all but shoved him against his car. “This is the sixth time your brother has called me to bail you out and pay off some cop, or to come collect you from the side of a road, or drag you out of some cabin where you’ve holed yourself up in hoping to be the next great-fucking-Ferelden novelist. I really hope it’s the last.”

“Because now you’ll send someone else?”

“Because you’re going to get your act together.” Teagan let him go, but kept his hard stare on Alistair, who was starting to shrink under that scathing look. “Alistair, I love you, I do. You’re family. But for Andraste’s sake, you can’t keep doing this. You need to be thinking seriously about the future, of attending uni and getting a degree—“

“And what the hell am I going to do with a college degree?” Alistair pushed back, crossing his arms, “I’ve never been to a _real school_ , Dad and Cailan made sure of that, and you all know I don’t want to do that. I want to join the Warden Guard, but you and Eamon and Cailan won’t let me _do_ that.”

“For good bloody reason! You might be a bastard but you’re still the son of a king, and no son of a king joins the Wardens.”

“Plenty of kings and sons of kings have joined the Grey Wardens in the past.”

“Yeah, back when there were actual _blights_. The Wardens are an honor-guard that still poisons themselves on tainted blood for some suicidal ceremony. You and Cailan are all that Ferelden have left of the Theirin bloodline, bastard or not. You owe her your life.”

“I owe nothing to no one—“

“Look, you—Alistair. We don’t choose to be born into nobility, or royalty, and while it has its charms, we have a duty to the land that gave us our blood and our titles.”

Alistair just stared at him, keeping his arms crossed.

“We’ll spend the night at Redcliffe before I take you back, and I’ll have someone bring your car to Denerim,” Teagan offered. “Alistair, please.”

Alistair uncrossed his arms, and followed Teagan to his car.

 

___

 

18:24 Atomic

Summer – Highever Manor

 

“Florence Jessamine Cousland,” her mother growled, ever the Seawolf, after the emissary from RDU drove away. Florence was already backing towards the staircase to her room when her father stood in the way.

“I’m sorry,” she held her hands up, “Fergus and Oriana and Darrien wanted to spend another day at the lakehouse, and honestly, I forgot—“

“I am talking about your _eye._ ”

“Did Darrien do that to you?” Bryce asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

“No – no! No, I got this at – ok you know that pub in the little town a mile from the lakehouse? Okay, so I’d had a few drinks, and this big burly guy was trying to hit on me, and Fergus tried to get me away from him, but the guy took it as a challenge and tried to hit Fergus but I kicked him off, and this guy’s buddy came in after me and Fergus and I got this—“ she pointed to her swollen, bruised eye “—but I totally kicked that guy’s _ass_ —“

“Florence!”

“I’m fine!”

Bryce scrubbed a hand over his eyes, while Eleanor put her hand on Florence’s shoulder, clearly exasperated, but not at all surprised – considering this was Florence that they were talking about.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Eleanor sighed. “Mr. McGlynn wasn’t perturbed enough by your tardiness or your appearance to withdraw RDU’s acceptance, so at least you’re attending this fall.”

“See—“

“But,” she continued, shushing her daughter, “you _will_ get your act together when you go to RDU this fall. That means no more bar fights—no more fighting in _general_ —and no more foregoing your responsibilities.”

“And you can’t see Darrien,” added Bryce.

Florence turned to her father. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“He’s here to _intern_ for me, not to be your boy toy for the summer. And he’s five years older than you.”

“You’re six years older than mom!”

“Yes, but we’re _old,_ so it doesn’t make a difference, does it?” Bryce countered, calling himself old at the ripe age of sixty-one. “He’s twenty-three. You’re freshly eighteen. Please tell me you see _something_ wrong with that.”

“I see something wrong with that,” added Eleanor.

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“I can look out for myself,” Florence retorted, and stalked past her father towards the stairs.

(Later, Bryce would bring her an ice pack for her eye, and accepted a peace-hug from his youngest)

 

___

 

18:24 Atomic

Summer – Redcliffe Castle

 

Cailan was pissed.

But then, Cailan was always pissed.

Alistair tossed his phone on the pillow of the bed when his brother hung up on him and flopped back onto the bed. He was set up in one of the many guest rooms in Redcliffe House – a gaudy glass and steel contraption of a mansion built within the reinforced remains of the ancient Redcliffe Castle. It was mostly Isolde’s idea when she didn’t want to live in the drafty 400-year-old country house after marrying Eamon. Alistair huffed – _Orlesians_.

The nice thing about Redcliffe House, of course, was the fact that it looked nothing like the Royal Palace, or any of the other state homes around Denerim, in Amaranthine, in Gwaren, or any other part of the damn country. It felt more like a hotel than the home of a noble, or the uncle of the King of Ferelden.

And Alistair liked that.

He liked hotels, and roadside truck stops, and other liminal places like that – where people are temporary, but the place is constant. Where travelers are coming, going, stopping for a few minutes or a few nights, but always continuing on. He liked them because he felt like he belonged in places like that. The bastard prince, the son of a woman he never met, son of a king who died when he was young. Never really belonging in the Royal Palace, never really belonging anywhere else.

He kind of felt like a liminal person.

Teagan called Cailan when they’d returned to Redcliffe House, and then Cailan called Alistair and chewed him out for a good thirty minutes before finally hanging up on him, pissed to hell.

He was eighteen, almost nineteen – he should be allowed to go out and drive whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, with his own damn car.

There was a knock at the door, and Teagan popped his head in.

“How’d it go?”

“How does it usually go?” Alistair said to the ceiling.

“That bad?”

“Sometimes we’re civil. Usually when I’m there, and not causing problems for him.”

Teagan chuckled. “So you _do_ know that you can be a pain in the ass.”

“Which is redundant, since I spend most of my time trying to get out of his and everyone else’s way.”

Alistair felt the bed sink as Teagan sat down on the edge. “He…your brother just wants to make sure you’re safe. You know that.”

Alistair didn’t respond.

“Would you feel better if we got pissed on Eamon’s expensive whiskey reserves?”

“…I might.”

 

___

 

18:30 Atomic

Winter – Denerim

 

Florence hid herself in the silent prayer room while Fergus left to give his personal condolences to the bereaved. That was his duty as Teyrn, not hers. Well, it should be her duty, but it’s not. Not today, not to him.

She really, really hated both Richard _and_ Fergus for making her come, and she hated Oriana for being so pregnant she couldn’t leave Highever and attend the funeral instead of Florence, and she hated _him_ for being the fucking King of Ferelden.

She almost texted Leliana – then deleted the message, no, she couldn’t drag her back into this mess. Leliana had helped enough. Zev had helped enough. Morrigan had helped enough. She couldn’t go to them – it’d been nearly three years, they must be tired of the same shit, same drama, over and over again.

A text came from Fergus. _[I’m outside. Where are you?]_

Florence slunk from the silent prayer room, through the throng of lay sisters and chantry clerks and funeral goers and mourners, the occasional reporter, the rare cameraman there to document the king’s funeral for wide-broadcast television.

Out the main doors, Fergus was standing under a black umbrella, the depressing mixture of rain and snow dumping all over Denerim and the sidewalk. Fergus offered her his arm, and they walked down the slick steps together.

She was getting in the car, Fergus going ‘round the other side, when she saw him in the corner of her eye. How – she didn’t know. He wore a black jacket, black kilt, and black coat like every other man at the funeral. He should blend in, but he didn’t.

He was looking at her—at _her_ —as the car pulled from the curb, and Florence turned around and knelt on the bench seat to look at him through the back window as the driver merged into traffic, as Alistair was lost in the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Fergus muttered, looking at her from the corner of his eye. Florence quickly sat back down, and buckled her seat belt.

“Nothing,” she muttered in response.

Absently, she reached for the silverite bracelet around her wrist, thumbing the words engraved into the band.

“Clearly something’s bothering you,” he said, but this time was mainly focused on his phone, scrolling through something on his screen.

Florence shrugged – but inside, she knew exactly what was bothering her. Because there was no guidebook, no tutor, no one to tell her what to do when the man that you were nearly married to, three years later, becomes King of Ferelden.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lets go on an adventure, kiddos


End file.
